


better to leave it unsaid

by barnes (sceaps)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Fluff, Gen, John Watson is a Saint, John Watson's Blog, M/M, Mistletoe, Mrs. Hudson Ships It, Sharing a Bed, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, john gets sherlock a scarf, they go out for ice cream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-20 11:15:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19991242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sceaps/pseuds/barnes
Summary: A study of John Watson and Sherlock Holmes through the seasons.





	better to leave it unsaid

**_summer_ **

“John.”

John doesn’t look up from his laptop screen. His fingers fly furiously over the keys; he’s documenting one of his and Sherlock’s latest escapades for his blog, and he’s just gotten to the bit where Sherlock had made a particularly brilliant deduction. John wants to make sure he writes Sherlock exactly as he had watched him last Thursday, eyes wild and body thrumming with adrenaline. Alive.

“John.”

He gives a noncommittal grunt. Blog Sherlock pulls out a gun and starts firing off questions. John taps his space bar, trying to remember exactly what Sherlock had said. He pushes his sleeves further up his forearms. The air is warm and humid, a thick blanket of heat encompassing the whole city. John wipes beads of sweat off his upper lip and refocuses on his entry.

_ “John.” _

“What  _ is  _ it, Sherlock?” he asks finally, turning away from his screen.

Sherlock is splayed out across the couch, his silk dressing gown crumpled beneath him. His legs hang off the arm of the chair, bare feet resting on a nearby table. He’s staring idly at the ceiling, fingers crossed on his chest. He meets John’s unimpressed stare with a raised eyebrow.

“It’s your turn to make dinner.”

John sighs, rubbing his eyes with his hand. “Sherlock, I’m trying to write up a post. This is for your  _ job,  _ for Christ’s sake. You need good publicity if you want to have dinner.”

“Since when have I cared about what the public makes of me?” Sherlock says, tilting his head to stare at John. “Let them think what they want to think. Your posts take away the mystique.”

“Sherlock—” John starts, then thinks better of it. “You know what, fine. I’ll make dinner instead of publicizing your bloody adventures. I’m not going to be the one complaining when we can’t pay for heating this winter.”

“Actually, you—”

John groans, agitated, then leans back in his chair so that he’s balancing on two legs. “Dammit, Sherlock.”

Sherlock huffs out a laugh. The corners of his mouth ease up, and John turns away so as to avoid seeing that smug smile. He runs a hand through his hair

“I’ll make dinner,” he says, “but you’re going to take me out for ice cream later tonight, and you’re going to pay.”

Sherlock is silent for a moment.

“You’re thinking about making soup,” he says finally.

_ “Sherlock,”  _ John says, “It’s bloody scorching out. I wouldn’t make soup.”

“Split pea, if I’m not mistaken,” Sherlock continues as if John hasn’t spoken. “You’d thought of making dinner as soon as I brought it up, given the subconscious shift in your position — you’re facing the kitchen now, and you’ve moved your laptop as well.” He steeples his fingers, pale eyes fixed on John’s. “Your eyes were straying to the bottom shelf of the refrigerator — the frozen peas. You thought it appropriate retribution to make something warm, as I had annoyed you and therefore deserved retribution of some sort.” Sherlock swings his legs over, sitting up straight on the couch. His posture is immaculate as per usual, and as he shucks off his dressing gown, John notes that his suit is completely devoid of wrinkles. He looks elegantly rumpled, and John half believes that it’s impossible for Sherlock not to look good.  _ Bloody perfect as always, _ he thinks to himself.

“I assume my analysis was correct?” Sherlock asks after a minute with no response from John.

“I’ll treat you to ice cream” is all John says in return. 

They have risotto for dinner. Sherlock picks out the peas and arranges them in a circle on the rim of his plate. John pretends to ignore him. Sherlock smiles that smug smile, but it’s softer. Fonder. John pretends to ignore that too.

(Sherlock buys him ice cream. A thin waffle cone, two scoops of mint chocolate chip. Sherlock steals a lick when he thinks John isn’t looking.)

**_autumn_ **

Baker Street is alive and buzzing, both inside and out. The street is packed with pedestrians and the odd suit-clad fellow late for work. John and Sherlock have had three clients over and it’s barely past twelve. John hasn’t been on a date in nearly three months — he’s been far too busy. He finds it doesn’t really bother him.

The windows of 221B are wide open, and fall air breezes through, fluttering book pages and loose-leaf paper. The air has the delicious scent of fallen leaves and the October coffee special down at Speedy’s. John drains his tea and Sherlock rosins his violin bow. Sherlock’s got that intense look on that can only mean he’s thinking hard about a case. Probably the second client from this morning, John thinks — it was the only case with any real merit, a family heirloom gone missing after a funeral. The catch was that the heirloom had been safely at home with the client while the funeral was in session; the client hadn’t attended.

John flips his notepad open, contemplating the scribbled shorthand he’d taken notes in earlier this morning. He’d prefer to discuss the facts with Sherlock, but the detective is staring intensely at his bow, lost in his own little world.

John takes the opportunity to examine Sherlock. His suit is immaculate as always, no trace of wrinkles on his freshly pressed pants. Sherlock’s tendency to overdress had always made John a little self-conscious about his button-downs and jeans, but he’s come to realize that Sherlock’s sense of style pertains to suits and suits only. John finds it strangely endearing, the way Sherlock dresses up even if they’re only leaving the house to get tacos down the street.

The only thing slightly out of place is the colorful scarf wound around Sherlock’s shoulders. It had been a gift from John for Sherlock’s birthday — bold stripes of alternating orange, red, green, and black, with nearly four inches worth of fringe at the ends. John had gotten it on a whim, thinking at the time that perhaps he could introduce more color into Sherlock’s wardrobe. He hadn’t expected Sherlock to actually wear the scarf, but here he is, bundled up in John’s thick woolen scarf in fifteen-degree weather. Something warm burns in John’s chest at the way Sherlock’s chin is tucked into the folds of the scarf as he leans back in his chair.

Sherlock’s hair is wild as always, and as John watches, Sherlock absentmindedly tucks a curl behind his ear. It springs back immediately, hanging in front of Sherlock’s right temple. Sherlock batts at it irritably, his eyes narrowing. He looks up, and then suddenly he’s back in the present, mind palace disappearing around him.

“How long?” He asks brusquely, meeting John’s eyes.

“Maybe twenty minutes?” John replies, watching Sherlock’s long fingers as he places his bow gently beside his violin. “Did you solve the case?”

“I suppose so,” Sherlock says.

“Well?” John asks when Sherlock doesn’t continue. “How’d it happen? The theft?”

“You’ll have to wait until tomorrow to find out,” Sherlock says, grinning. It’s that smile again, that goddamn self-righteous  _ I’m Sherlock Holmes and I know everything.  _ John hates it and loves it all at once.

“Brilliant,” he says, clapping his hands. “I’m off to Tesco for some biscuits, then. Call me when you decide to explain to me how it went down.”

John gets two steps out of their flat when Sherlock calls, “Wait, John!” and appears a moment later, scarf askew and collar sticking out of his jacket.

“Already?” John asks, grinning, reaching out to adjust Sherlock’s collar.

“Shut up,” Sherlock mutters, and John swears he sees the great William Sherlock Scott Holmes blush. “No, I am merely accompanying you on your...Tesco run.”

“Right,” John says, ribbing Sherlock as they walk side by side down Baker Street. “You’re just here for the biscuits.”

“If you’ve got any cocaine, I’ll take that too.”

“Stop that,” John says sharply. He frowns up at Sherlock, who looks surprised.

Sherlock raises his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I’ve been clean for over a year, John. You know me better than that. Is it so hard to believe that I am capable of humor?”

“Yes,” John replies, a little stiffly.

The following silence would have been awkward, but the bustle of London streets provides far too much noise to hold a properly uncomfortable silence. John elbows his way through passersby to keep up with Sherlock’s pace — a feat doubly difficult due to the fact that Sherlock is striding by quicker than usual. John attributes this to Sherlock’s discomfort surrounding their discussion.

“He was lying,” Sherlock says a block and a half later. “The man from earlier. He had gone to the funeral, he must’ve. He gave the heirloom to his sister-in-law, who’s hidden it safely away. It’s all an elaborate scheme to one-up the other side of a family feud.”

“A feud?” John exclaims, grateful both for the change of subject and that Sherlock has finally decided to divulge the details of the case he had solved not ten minutes prior. “How’d you figure that one out, mate?”

They take a left.

“His breast pocket,” Sherlock says.

“But — there was nothing in his breast pocket,” John says confusedly.

“Exactly.”

Sherlock’s smile isn’t the smug one John is most accustomed to; this one is more tentative, soft and unsure.

“I’m joking,” Sherlock says quietly. “I looked through his social media pages. The man is very vocal about which relatives he dislikes and what he would do to them given the chance.”

John chuckles.

“And you said I couldn’t make a joke.”

John bumps Sherlock’s arm with his elbow. “I never said that. I just think your sense of humor can go a bit dark sometimes.”

“Oh.”

“It’s not a bad thing,” John says quickly. “Just — some people might not understand that what you’re saying is a joke.”

Sherlock adjusts his scarf more securely around his neck.

“You’ve got a bloody good sense of humor, though,” John says conversationally as they walk through the sliding doors of Tesco. Warm air rushes over them, and he feels Sherlock shiver next to him. “Comes out when I least expect it. Better than Mycroft’s, that’s for sure.”

Sherlock snorts. “Mycroft couldn’t make a joke to save his life.”

“Imagine,” John laughs, “Mycroft at gunpoint, being told to tell a joke or he’d be shot in the head.”

“He’d take the shot,” Sherlock says immediately. “In his mind, death with dignity precedes escaping with your life if the circumstances of the escape are that humiliating.”

“Mycroft says, “Why did the chicken cross the road?” Bloke with the gun asks why, and Mycroft says, “To get to— to the— yeah, just get it over with.””

Sherlock is laughing,  _ really  _ laughing, not the quiet snickers John knows but full-on chest heaving, out-of-breath laughter. He clings to John’s arm, nearly doubled over.

“Whoa there, mate, biscuits are this way,” John says, looking slightly concerned. He takes Sherlock by the arm and drags him away from the boxed cereals, Sherlock nearly in tears.

“It wasn’t even that funny of a joke,” John says later that day. They’re eating dinner on the dining room table; it’s one of those rare days when Sherlock isn’t mixing up some strange concoction and staining the walls green and it’s safe to use the table for a night. 

Sherlock smiles. “It really wasn’t.”

_ It’s the thought that counts,  _ he doesn’t add, because Sherlock Holmes has never been one to voice his feelings. But he makes John a cup of tea the next morning; two sugars, just the way he likes it. 

**_winter_ **

Mrs. Hudson invites them over for a Christmas party on December 24th. Sherlock doesn’t want to go. John drags him downstairs and straightens his tie outside of Mrs. Hudson’s door, complaining about how there’s no way they’re blowing off this invitation.

“She does enough for us, Sherlock, the least we can do is show up,” John says crossly, keeping a firm hold on Sherlock’s wrist as he tries to pull away. “We don’t have to stay the entire time, but it’s common courtesy. Come on, Sherlock.”

The stairwell is drafty, and the tip of Sherlock’s nose is pink. John adjusts his jacket with his free hand.

“It’s bloody freezing, mate,” he says when Sherlock doesn’t respond. “Let’s just hurry up, okay?”

“I have a case,” Sherlock mutters. He tugs at John’s hand, but John doesn’t let up.

“Your case can wait,” John says sternly. “Do it for Mrs. Hudson. Do it for  _ me,  _ okay? I’d rather like to go.”

Sherlock is silent for a few seconds, and then his wrist goes slack in John’s grip. 

“Fine.”

John blinks.

“You’re surprised,” Sherlock says slowly. “I said I’d go, didn’t I?”

“Just like that?” John asks.

“Just like that,” Sherlock repeats.

It is at this moment that John realizes their hands are still joined. He drops Sherlock’s, turning away quickly. Sherlock catches a flush high on John’s cheekbones and frowns, following him towards Mrs. Hudson’s door.

“Oh, lovely, you’ve come!” Mrs. Hudson says, clapping excitedly when she opens her door to John and Sherlock. Sherlock looks distinctly rumpled and John has gone a curious shade of pink, and while she is inclined to comment on what they may or may not have just been doing, she merely raises an eyebrow at the pair before letting them in.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock says as he passes her. It’s quiet, not meant for ears other than their landlady’s, but John hears it all the same.

Sherlock catches John smiling.

—

Ten o’clock finds Mrs. Hudson, Molly, and Lestrade far too drunk to act remotely serious. For some reason, Anderson’s there too, with whom Sherlock has spent the evening exchanging dirty looks. 

At one point, Mrs. Hudson trips over a fallen streamer, but Lestrade catches her before any harm can be done. She straightens up in his arms, brushing off her dress, then points slyly up at the mistletoe hung on the doorstep.

“Christmas rules,” she says, her smile red-lipsticked and wide. Lestrade heaves a sigh and kisses her on the cheek.

The mistletoe finds several more victims over the course of the evening, including Mycroft, who had stepped in for a brief moment. He had flat-out refused to kiss Molly, who didn’t look too pleased with the arrangement herself. However, at Mrs. Hudson’s insistence of honoring Christmas tradition, he had relented and given her a brief peck on the corner of her mouth before slamming the door shut.

“Quite a temper on that one,” Mrs. Hudson says, shaking her finger. “You watch out for him, Sherlock. Don’t want him getting into any trouble.”

John snorts, and Sherlock kicks him in the shin.

They’re wrapping up around eleven-thirty, and John and Sherlock are the last out the door. John turns to say one last goodbye to Mrs. Hudson and manages to get out one last “Thanks for having us over, Mrs. H—” when she points up at a clump of mistletoe above his and Sherlock’s heads. 

“Goodnight, you two,” she says, smirking, before closing her front door firmly in front of their faces.

John and Sherlock stare up at the mistletoe. Sherlock is silent for a moment that seems to stretch into eternity, and John pushes back the hot wave of disappointment that washes over him and prepares to say something along the lines of  _ Bugger Christmas tradition, let’s just go back upstairs. _

Sherlock kisses him. 

It’s warm, and Sherlock tastes like cheap rum and gingerbread. John stays frozen for half a second before he shuffles forward, bringing his arms up around Sherlock’s neck. Their lips meet, and part, and meet again. It’s sloppy, and Sherlock is so much taller than him, and their noses keep bumping into each other. John loves every second of it.

“We should probably go upstairs,” John pants when they break apart for air. He suspects he looks dazed, as Sherlock is staring at him with an expression so fond he thinks his heart might break in two. 

“Upstairs,” Sherlock agrees. “Yes, that’s probably a good idea.”

John leads the way up to 221B, Sherlock’s hand in his. Mrs. Hudson giggles through her door.

**_spring_ **

Loving Sherlock Holmes is easy, perhaps one of the easiest things John’s ever done. It’s ingrained in him, every fiber of his being hard-wired with an inexplicable fondness for his partner.

It’s in everyday tasks, like making tea in the mornings or doing Sherlock’s laundry aside his own or the way Sherlock squeezes his hand in the dark — three beats, three syllables,  _ I love you. _

John gets houseplants — a philodendron and a small succulent garden. Sherlock’s experiments are moved to his bedroom, which becomes an office; Sherlock starts sleeping side-by-side with John. Some of Sherlock’s suits make their way into John’s closet. They can never tell their socks apart.

There’s one morning when John wakes up to Sherlock tangled in him, legs intertwined with John’s and a hand slung carelessly over John’s torso. He knows he needs to get up — he’s got work in a little over an hour — but he can’t stop staring at the way Sherlock’s lips are slightly parted, his messy curls spilling over his pillow, the graceful dip of his collarbone. Sherlock’s always slept shirtless, and John feels his skin against him and thinks that he’s never felt more at home.

And then he’s awake, pale eyes blinking open and leveling with John’s.

“Hi,” John says quietly. Their noses are touching.

“Hi.” Sherlock’s voice is raspy and deep in that just-waking-up way. It drives John wild.

He kisses Sherlock then, morning breath be damned, because he’s just  _ lying  _ there with those pretty curls and all that bare skin on show like a fucking exhibitionist. He kisses him soft and slow, trying as best as he can to tell Sherlock what he means without words.

He thinks Sherlock understands because when he pulls away, his eyes are soft. His hand finds John’s under the covers, and he squeezes once, twice, three times.

_ I love you too. _

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
